


Early Morning Sun

by rory_the_dragon



Series: Miles And Miles [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Ambiguously Underage, M/M, Non-Fairytale AU, Oral Sex, Peter POV, Shower Sex, The Lost Boys Are A Gang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter...Peter should not be freaking out right now. By every law in every universe, Henry should be the one whose bones are flooding with panic, who can’t decide whether to run or to hide, who physically cannot say good morning to the boy in his bed, not Peter. Peter’s had plenty of morning-afters; snuck out of a few, kicked a few out, let some just happen because he was too tired to do anything else. Peter knows morning-afters. </p><p>This is Henry’s first.</p><p>(Or: the morning after the night before.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Morning Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This work is set in the Miles and Miles universe an all human, no fairytale universe which still takes place in Storybrooke. The Lost Boys are a gang. Peter and Henry are in an established relationship. Background Felix/Wendy mentioned at the end.
> 
> Set after Take Me Home and Where To Go, before Seek You Out.
> 
> Henry is 17 and Peter is 21.

 

Peter is still shaking.

Henry sleeps on, oblivious, tucked under Peter’s arm and curled into his side like a dormouse, steady, sleepy breaths fanning out across Peter’s chest, and Peter can’t stop shaking, can’t stop the slow _up, down_ of his fingertips as they trace lightly across Henry’s exposed arm, can’t stop the rapid tapping of his other hand against his headboard.

His breath is tight in his chest, heavy, as if something’s sitting on him, crushing him, and very few things in Peter’s life scare him, but lying in dirty sheets with a naked Henry Mills pressed tight against him in the early hours of morning _terrifies_ him beyond words.

He feels it when Henry wakes up, the tiny shift in his breathing, the sudden tenseness in all of his muscles when he realises exactly where he is. Peter freezes, honestly doesn’t know what to expect, never knows what to expect with Henry.

He blinks when Henry just exhales softly, head rolling backwards so he can find Peter’s face, and smiles sleepily up at him. “Hey.”

Peter...Peter should not be freaking out right now. By every law in every universe, _Henry_ should be the one whose bones are flooding with panic, who can’t decide whether to run or to hide, who physically cannot say good morning to the boy in his bed, not Peter. Peter’s had plenty of morning-afters; snuck out of a few, kicked a few out, let some just happen because he was too tired to do anything else. Peter knows morning-afters. This is Henry’s first.

Fuck, this is Henry’s _first_.

Peter is going to hell.

“Peter?” Henry’s voice is quiet, a small crease starting to form between his eyebrows, and Peter can see it the second he's fucked up because Henry's face drains. "Did...Did I do something wrong?"

And that...that is just perfect, honestly. Henry is the most precocious kid Peter's met, and in a matter of seconds Peter's found his insecurity and twisted a knife into it. This is why Peter needs to be kept away from important things like Henry, because he reaches out and he breaks them and Henry should never be broken.

" _No_ ," He says, and it comes out fierce, the hand tracing idle patterns on Henry's shoulder clamping down hard. "Don't be ridiculous."

No, this is all Peter.

The dread in Henry's face lifts, only to be replaced by an angry flush high in his cheeks. "I'm not being ridiculous." He sits up, looking down at Peter, and Peter hasn't been _young_ for years, robbed of it, but in this moment he feels like a child. He can't move. "This was the best morning of my life and I got to enjoy three seconds of it before  _you_ started _freaking out_!" Because of course Henry can read him like a book. Peter hasn't known how to hide anything from Henry for a while now.

Henry pushes away, making to get up, but somewhere along the way his anger dissipates and he stops, perched on the edge of Peter's bed, still, rests his head in his hands. The bow of his spine is taut and all Peter wants to do is run his fingertips up the ridges, follow it with his mouth.

He's been an idiot.  _Best morning of my life_ rings in his ears, and it's true, so undeniably true. Peter might have spent it a nervous breath's edge away from a panic attack, but waking up to Henry in his bed, feeling the soft beat of his heart through his ribs, pressed against Peter's skin...Peter can't remember ever being happy the way that made him happy.

Such an idiot.

He slides across the bed, silent, presses up against Henry's back and holds himself back to just a soft kiss to the join of Henry's shoulder, noses at his hair. He doesn't say sorry but Henry hears it anyway, lifts his head up and leans back into Peter.

"You don't regret it?" Peter asks, _breathes_ , hooking his chin over Henry's shoulder. His hands settle on the warm bare skin of Henry’s stomach.

Henry exhales, knocks his head against Peter’s. “Should I?”

Peter doesn’t say _I hope not_ , can’t say anything because the only way he knows how to use his words is to hurt, to seduce, to twist them into weapons and target the softest part of a person, and he hasn’t done that with Henry, not when it matters, so he just presses more kisses against Henry’s skin, harder and frantic as he climbs the curve of Henry’s neck, the delicate skin behind his ear, until Henry makes a noise in the back of his throat and angles his head around to catch Peter’s mouth.

Henry’s mouth tastes rough, early morning grit, and Peter knows his doesn’t taste much better, but neither of them are complaining as Henry turns his body around to accommodate the position, all but _crawls_ into Peter’s lap and...it’s very different, kissing Henry unclothed. More to touch, to run his hands over, harder to hold back from ducking his head, kissing his way down Henry’s chest.

Maybe Henry should regret it, should regret letting Peter into his life with such an open heart and smile that Peter still doesn’t understand how Henry hasn’t gotten hurt yet, how no one’s taken advantage of it. Maybe Henry _should_ regret Peter, and maybe one day he will. But it’s not today, not yet, Henry’s in his arms right now, kissing him like there’s no where else he’d rather be, so Peter’ll take what he can.

“Shower,” Henry gasps out after Peter’s reclaimed his mouth again, biting down on his bottom lip, reddening it, and Peter takes a moment to be thoroughly confused before Henry continues, “I’ve got school.”

School. Of course Henry’s got school. Because Peter’s life is just that ridiculous.

Peter groans, rests his head against Henry’s collarbone. “Skip.”

“I’ve got a test,” And, _no_ , Henry’s moving, swinging off of Peter’s lap, standing and stretching in the cold of Peter’s bedroom, and none of this is convincing Peter why Henry shouldn’t stay. Then, “Coming?" Henry pads away out of his bedroom and Peter can be incredibly stupid sometimes, more so when it comes to Henry, but he can spot an invitation when he’s handed one.

It’s a bad idea, it’s such a bad idea, because Henry’s got school and Peter has things to do as well, and everyone everywhere knows that when two people shower together, it saves neither time nor water, and Henry _knows_ this, Peter can see it in the grin he levels up at him when Peter crowds him under the hot water, because Henry’s naked in the daylight, all the long lines of him, and he’s got Peter’s marks on his neck, his hips, his wrists, and does anyone really expect Peter to be able to resist that?

Henry hisses when Peter presses him against the cold tiles, bites down on his ear in retaliation, and there isn’t really enough room in Peter’s tiny shower cubicle, but Peter goes to his knees. Henry’s been hard since the bedroom, but Peter ignores him in favour of pressing sloppy kisses to his hips, the crease of his thighs, nosing around but not _quite_ giving Henry what he wants. Fuck, he's going to make this so good for him.

“I’m going to be so late,” is all Henry says, laughs, and Peter wants to catch the sound in his mouth, settles instead for parting his lips around the head, sucking half the length into his mouth without warning, hears Henry cry out. He doesn’t grin, only because it’s difficult to bob his head with a smile.

He’d say this is one of his favourite things to do in bed, if the memory of Henry sprawled out beneath him, legs hooked up and neck _arching_ wasn’t still fresh in his mind, seared into his brain.

"I'm- _ah_ \- going to slip."

Peter pulls off with a wet _hot_ _snap_. "So hold onto something, Mills."

And Henry does, hands flying out, frantic, scrabbling at the tiles when Peter licks a wet stripe along the underside of his cock, hanging off the door as Peter opens his throat, takes the warm and heavy weight of him further, further in, until he finally comes to rest and steadies himself by burying his hands in Peter's hair. Peter holds a hand against the curve of Henry's calf, just in case, and is glad he had the foresight to because just then Henry's hands _twist_ around his hair and he can't stop the moan that shudders out of him, around Henry.

Henry's thigh spasms and Peter knows he's close, flicks his tongue and that's it folks, show’s over, Henry's shouts echoing back to them off the cubicle walls as Peter swallows around him.

He drags his mouth off, slow, as Henry leans against the tiles, expression wiped out, and Peter grins, smug, reaches down between his legs to finish himself off and when he comes it's enough to knock him sideways, rest his head against Henry's thigh and _breathe_.

Henry's hands are still in Peter's hair, lightly carding through, almost unconscious, and Peter has to disentangle himself before he can stand, tip his head back into the shower head and slick his hair out of his eyes. Henry's still coming out of it so he presses a quick kiss to his temple and reaches for the shampoo, squeezing a dollop out of his hands and running it through Henry's hair.

That pulls him out of it. "I can do my own hair," he grumbles, though some of the effect is lost as he stands still under Peter's hands, closes his eyes.

"I know," and Peter ducks in and kisses him, gentle until Henry responds with enthusiasm, and Peter's just about to say _fuck everything_ and keep Henry here in his shower til the water runs cold when Henry draws back, nose scrunched and eyes dancing. "You taste awful."

It shocks a laugh out of Peter, deep from his chest, and Henry's face lights up at the sound. "Fucking teenagers, I swear to god," Peter starts, and Henry laughs, kisses him.

They finish up - _start_ \- washing and only get distracted twice more, moving around each other as if they’ve been doing the familiar dance for years and it makes Peter’s chest do something funny, like he’s being carved out, carving himself out and giving it to Henry, and he’s known for a long time that Henry’s going to kill him one day, he just didn’t think it’d be this slow, this welcome.

Henry rushes about after showering, yanking on yesterday’s jeans and stealing a top of Peter’s without even asking, popping his head through the neck and daring Peter to say anything. As if Peter’s going to have anything to say about the way his shirt looks on Henry’s body, neck too large and gaping, showing the dark bruises Peter left on his collarbone last night, the ones that are still just blossoming from this morning. Everything about Henry says _thoroughly fucked out_ and Peter really shouldn’t be letting him out the door like this, let alone to his school of all places, but it also says _property of Peter_ and he can’t not like that.

“Got everything?”

Henry’s backpack - and Peter tries very hard to ignore the fact that he’s dating someone who still uses a _backpack_ for chrissakes - had been abandoned by the front door as soon as he’d arrived, and he grabs it, slings it over his shoulder and nods. He looks utterly indecent, and Peter has to put all of his effort into opening the door and getting out before he decides to lock them both in for the foreseeable future.

Peter’s hair’s still wet when they get outside, pretty sure his shirt’s inside out too, but Henry’s really not giving him much of an option to do much about it, all but pushing him to the car, muttering, “I am so late. It’s _not funny_ , _Peter_.”

It is. A little. And Henry’s laughing by the time they pull up outside Henry’s school gates, so Peter figures he’ll be let off.

“See you later, yeah?” Henry asks, breathless, when they’re both standing outside the car, letting the swell of students hurrying in part around them, and Henry really should be gone by now, but he’s looking up at Peter like he’s x-raying him, trying to find any of the terror that Peter started the morning off with.

It’s always going to be there. There will never be anything in Peter’s life more terrifying than Henry Mills, but he kisses him until he’s soothed, slides his hands into his backpockets and squeezes until Henry’s yelping, swatting at him, and every frown line is smoothed away.

“See you later,” Peter agrees, and Henry runs off in the final dregs of students, turns back at the doors. Peter raises a hand in goodbye, and he’s gone.

Peter is so fucked.

This is it. Henry’s _it_.

Peter’s fucked.

He drives in a daze, doesn’t realise he’s at Wendy’s crappy apartment block until the door’s opening and she’s standing in front of him, in ragged pajamas and bedhead, eyebrow raised and unimpressed.

“Peter, it’s not even fucking nine am, what could possib…” Her voice trails away when she takes him in, his wet hair, his shirt, the shoes he’s certain don’t match. She opens the door wider, lets him in.

Peter is the leader of The Lost Boys, but Wendy has never seen him as anything other than himself. He can go to pieces in front of her.

Felix is lounging in the doorway to Wendy’s bedroom, arms crossed across his bare chest as he looks at Peter in concern, but he says nothing. Felix has been his brother since they were five, knows when to push and when to shut up, and Peter is so monumentally grateful right now as Wendy sits beside him on her couch, and Felix takes the armchair, still silent.

“I’m fucked,” He says, rests his head in the cradle of his hands.

And Wendy, for all that she can be a raging bitch when she wants to be, and she so often does, when she speaks, is soft. “You slept with him.”

Peter nods.

He’s still shaking.

 


End file.
